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Tommy never thought it’d be easy, this whole thing. There’s a fucking reason he’s spent every waking moment running from the war, because that’s the easy choice. So quite obviously, doing the opposite would be hard. Though maybe, he hadn’t expected it to be quite this hard.
...
They’re out on business, him and Alfie, when it happens the first time. They would be, of course, with his luck. A rather skittish man is showing them around a potential venue for another distillery –bakery, Tommy hears Alfie in his head. Alfie is fed up with him already, and has seemingly zoned out to think about something else entirely. Tommy listens with calm indifference. Give the man some fucking credit –they are quite intimidating people separately, in their own ways. Together, they seem to have the ability to turn the some of the bravest of men into scared little boys. Has turned out to be a quite successful concept where business is concerned.
”And then finally there’s the cellar,” the man says with a note of relief, and nods toward a trapdoor leading down into an unseen part of the warehouse. “Not much to see down there I’m afraid. Old cargo, mostly.”
“Yeah, but what does that mean, mate? Who knows what kind of shit you people have been up to.” Alfie looks up at the ceiling at the doves nesting there, and Tommy just knows he is annoyed with them. “Might be full of dead bodies mounted on fucking sticks, yeah? Right, I once saw this cellar where a bloke had stored the left foot of all the wrongdoers in his life –just lined them up all neatly on a shelf. No idea why just the left foot, seems like a fucking odd choice. All shrivelled up they were. Wouldn’t want that kind of thing among the fucking bread, mate. Think of the mould.”
Tommy bites back an amused smirk as the man –Barnes, Tommy believes his name is- stares at Alfie with wide eyes. Blinks. Tries to respond appropriately –an impossible feat when Alfie is involved of course.
“In other words, we’d like to see that cellar,” Tommy says and gives Alfie a look, telling him to play nice.
“Of course.” Barnes can’t get to it fast enough.
A damp, musty smell hits them as he opens the heavy wooden door, revealing a metal staircase leading into a pitch-black hole. It’s not until then, Tommy realises this may pose a problem.
Alfie coughs. “Fucking hell, mate, I’m starting to suspect you actually got some fucking severed feet stored down there.”
Barnes laughs nervously, walking over to the wall where two electric torches are hung.
“There’s electricity down there. Should be in working order, at least partially. Better take a light, to be on the safe side. I could come along and-“ he takes a step forward, and Alfie’s cane swings up to land against his chest. Just hard enough to be a warning.
“You’ve got to ask yourself, mate: are these men really people I’d like to be alone in a fucking basement with?” Alfie has quite clearly had it with this man’s jittery presence.
Barnes open and closes his mouth a few times, unsure what the correct answer to that question is.
“Ollie has the proposed contract, read it through,” Tommy says coly, puts out his cigarette with the heal of his boot, and takes one of the torches. “We’d like to finish this up.” He steels himself for the short descent. It’s just a room, under another fucking room. Every dark and windowless place isn’t a tunnel. Not giving himself any more time to think about it, he walks down the stairs without waiting for Barnes’ response.
“Of course, Mr. Shelby.” Short pause. “Mr. Solomons, Sir.” And then very urgent steps, disappearing through the warehouse.
Tommy hears Alfie chuckle behind him as he too comes down the stairs, the tell-tale sound of his cane echoing against the stone walls. Hear that? It’s a large room, not a tunnel.
“You can’t talk like that to ordinary people.” Tommy finds a light switch, and a few bulbs crackle to life and spread a yellow glow in the large room. “Almost gave the man a heart attack. Could’ve just asked to see the cellar.”
“Now, where’s the fun in that, eh?” Alfie sets the torch down at the foot of the stairs and wraps the arm around his waist instead, clearly deeming this to be the more important occupation for it. “We’ve got this by now: I do the rambling and look intimidating. Maybe shoot someone every now and then. You look pretty and make sure shit actually gets done. Perfect partnership, this.” Tommy leaves it be, and just start walking over the damp floor, heading for the opposite wall. It’s a huge room, filled with all sorts of old, forgotten cargo –large crates mostly- that form dwindling corridors throughout it. But the ceiling is quite a bit over their heads, and its spacious enough for them to be able to walk side by side. Not a tunnel. Not a tunnel.
“Still don’t understand why we do shit like this ourselves,” Alfie mutters. “As opposed to you Birmingham folks, I’ve got people who do the legwork, you know.”
“Well that’s my other purpose, keep you on the fucking ground.” Tommy inspects the ceiling. “There are things you’ve got to do yourself.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say darling. If this is the sort of thing that does it for you.” Alfie’s hand slips down and squeezes his arse. “Maybe you’d like a little fumble in the dark so to speak.” Tommy rolls his eyes at this.
“You are the most inappropriate man in all of England, Solomons.”
“And that title is my biggest pride.”
Alfie’s presence helps, Tommy decides, as they make their way through the room. This is fine. It’s all fine.
Until it’s not.
Suddenly, something scrapes against the wall. Just a rat, clawing on the stone.
But it’s like flicking a switch.
Tommy is overwhelmed by a smell of earth and blood, and surrounded by dirt on all sides. It’s weighing down on him with its sheer mass, pressing against him from the walls of the tight passage. And it’s dark, and there’s barely any air to breathe –he can’t breathe- The shovels and pickaxes are working their way closer, closer, and they have nowhere to run. All they can do is wait, while the sound grows louder. They hold their breaths- him, Freddie and Danny, for just a moment- then chaos erupts. Freddie is screaming, shots are fired, and he is grabbed from behind by a pair of arms. He fights desperately, but the arms are brutal and relentless and he’s helplessly trapped. He can’t breathe- can’t breathe- and he’s going to die here, deep under the ground in some far off fucking country, and never see his family again- he has to take care of them, can’t die here, because he has to-
“Tommy!” Danny yells his name, and he can’t breathe- it’s dark and it smells of blood and the air is thick with fear and he can’t-
“Tommy, it’s alright.”
Danny’s voice is suddenly different, deeper, with a gravelly undertone. Calm. It’s a safe voice. He clings to it. But his heart is beating so hard it hurts- the arms hold him against a broad chest and he struggles frantically to get away- the fear and darkness is overwhelming.
He cries out.
“Shh, it’s just me here, love,” the safe voice says again. “Just Alfie. Nothing much to be afraid of. Least not for you. I’m right here. You’re alright.” But he is choking on dirt and blood, screams of terror echoing in his head.
“Just breathe through it love, in and out. Will be over before you know it.” A hand cradles the back of his head and firmly pushes his face against a bearded neck, enveloping him in a familiar scent of rum and the factory smoke that always lingers in Camden Town.
The scene falls away. The sound of shovels, the screams, the gunfire, it all fades. And Tommy finds himself on the floor of a dingy basement under a warehouse in London, cradled against Alfie’s chest. He tries to get his breathing under control, but it’s like he can’t get enough air into his lungs. His whole body is shaking on its own accord, adrenaline rushing through his veins.
“Slowly, eh, Tommy?” Alfie takes one of Tommy’s hands, buries it under all his layers of clothing until it rests against his shirt-clad chest, over his heart. “Remember that. It’ll feel better in a bit. I’ve got you.” Alfie breathes –slow, deep breaths and Tommy instinctually curls up against him, letting the warmth of his body anchor him. Right then, he doesn’t think about consequences, doesn’t think himself weak, or the situation humiliating- right then, all he knows is that Alfie is the one safe harbour in a sea of dread. And he clings desperately to him, terrified that if he lets go he’ll drown.
“I’ve got you, love,” Alfie repeats and holds him tightly. “All you have to do is breathe.” It’s hard at first, the air doesn’t seem to get past his heart, which is still caught in his throat. But it helps, not having to think for himself how he’s supposed to breathe, just follow along with Alfie’s steady rhythm. He can feel the rise and fall of his chest under his hand, and he focuses on that, only that.
Eventually, he comes back to himself.
“Any better?” Alfie asks in that same calm tone.
“It’s fine.” Tommy wrings himself loose.
He gets up on unsteady feet, brushes himself off and fights a myriad of conflicting feelings: Wanting to cling to Alfie and to the safety he offers, wanting to pretend the whole episode didn’t happen, wanting to get out of this cellar, out of London, go back to the way things were because he just can’t fucking deal with this-
A hand grips his chin, just hard enough to force him to look up. Alfie is standing right there.
“Hey, no running off into your own head, yeah?” he says firmly. “Preferably no other type of running off either. Can we aim for that, this time?”
Tommy forces his brain to stop searching for escape routes and focuses on Alfie instead. Alfie’s gaze is steady, determined. You don’t just say no to Alfie Solomons when he looks at you that way. It’s a very deliberate move on Alfie’s part –Don’t worry, I’ve got this. All Tommy has to do is trust him. And why, of all the fucking things in the world, is that somehow the hardest?
“Yeah. Sure.”
“That’s a good lad.” Alfie smiles through the beard and presses a kiss onto his forehead.
“Let’s get out of here, yeah? Think we’ve seen enough.” His hand comes to rest on Tommy’s back as he leads him out of the cellar. You’ll have to try too. Otherwise this whole thing will go to hell.
They get up in the daylight on the ground floor of the warehouse, where some rare sunlight streams in through the windows in the ceiling.
Tommy lets Alfie deal with the whole thing: signing the contract, mildly threatening Barnes into some terms not actually in the contract, nearly shooting one of the doves when it coos just a bit too loudly. Even lets him get into a whole long, irrelevant story about some thing or another, while Barnes just stares at him with a look of poorly concealed horror.
Because he’s just so fucking tired all of a sudden, like all energy has been drained from him. It’s this bone-deep weariness that has settled throughout his entire body, making just standing upright a challenge. Can’t even keep a full thought in his head, it’s all just this void.
Whiskey. He needs whiskey.
Alfie goes on and on about something, but then he glances down at Tommy and his whole story comes to a surprising halt. And his eyes soften for just a moment.
“Well, I think we’re about done here,” he states. “Ollie!” The man in question comes running. “Get the car started will you? Be quick about it. Fucking sick of these fucking birds, mate.”
“So, two things, yeah, to make this thing final,” he turns to Barnes again. “One, fix the fucking birds, alright? And two, the rat problem down in the cellar, that has to go. None of that scurrying about. Awful sound, that scratching. Gets on my nerves.” Alfie gestures to his head. “And yeah, a spontaneous third thing –the electricity, that has to be in fucking top shape, right? If I’m ever down there and the light just decides to go out, I will not only hunt you down and shoot you in both knees, but also put a bag over your head and have it stitched to your neck to give you the full pitch-black-cellar experience, permanently. Fucking hate the dark, mate, such bullshit. We clear?”
“Absolutely, Sir, of course, we’ll have it seen to- yes.” Barnes trips over the words. Poor man, he’ll be traumatized after this.
“Great! All good then.” Alfie slaps his back hard enough to almost send him hurtling to the ground.
...
Ollie drives, while Alfie and Tommy sit in the back. And when Alfie wraps an arm around him and pulls him against his side, Tommy relaxes into it, resting his head against his chest. He’s too tired to resist.
He nearly falls asleep in the car, but is very thankful that he doesn’t, because there’s a very real risk Alfie would’ve decided to carry him inside if he had. There’s a limit to the humiliation he will subject himself to in a day. But when they get in and Alfie firmly tells him to go sit down because it looks as if he’s about to keel over, he does. The restless energy that’s always coursing through him is gone, leaving him feeling utterly worn out. It’s the adrenaline wearing off, a logical part of his brain tells him. But it mostly feels like he’s been through a fucking war again.
He slumps down on the couch and lights a cigarette.
Alfie sits down right next to him. Unnecessary, because it’s a pretty big couch, alright. So the option of resting his head against his shoulder is far too convenient for Tommy to pass up on. The secure weight of Alfie’s arm around him soothes his wrecked nerves.
“So, no more cellars for you, eh? Even if we’ll get that fucking rat problem sorted,” Alfie states. “Anything else we should avoid that you know of?”
“We don’t have to avoid shit,” Tommy mutters. The response is instinctual, and he feels that familiar urge to remove himself from the situation. Alfie must sense this, because his grip around his shoulders tightens just a bit. To make leaving harder than staying. And Tommy is fucking exhausted, so he stays, even though there’s a new tension to his muscles. He fills his lunges with smoke and wishes Alfie would give him a drink.
“Hey now, I know a bloke who can’t even look at a fucking fence without nearly putting his fucking head through it.” Alfie’s fingers rake against the nape of his neck, scratching just a bit. “And another who’s just bloody terrified of smelling petrol –can’t even drive a fucking car, yeah? Ain’t a big deal, this, cellars are strange places. No point in hanging out in one.” The hand moves up into his hair, and Tommy feels himself relaxing under the touch, as he so often does.
“Everyone’s got their shit. You just haven’t dealt with yours, simple as that.”
Tommy still wants to protest, because that’s what he does: he makes the calls, other people listen. And here Alfie is, telling him what to do. The way Alfie deals with most things, with this self-assured dominance that drives him up the wall in more ways than one.
Fucking scary, to admit weakness. Admit that he can’t handle everything. He finishes the cigarette and disposes the stub on the new ashtray. This situation could quickly turn into what led to the last one laying shattered on the floor.
His mind replays the events of that night, the fight, and the downward spiral that followed. It’s all a bit blurry to be honest, that week, mostly this vague fog of alcohol, violence and other forms of self-destruction. Almost as terrifying as the episode in Alfie’s office: how quickly things went south when he was left to his own devices back in Birmingham. Alfie can never know about it. Because then that look of pity will forever be etched on his face whenever he looks at Tommy.
And he can’t let it happen again. He has to play this right, give Alfie just enough information to quell his worry for now.
Why is he this way? Why the fuck is he this way-
“You’re doing it again.” Alfie tugs lightly at his hair, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Overthinking. We’re trying to avoid that here, remember? Promise not to dig around in your head more tonight. After this, just some rum and a good fuck, yeah?” This does coax a bit of a smile from Tommy, and some more of the tension melts from his shoulders as Alfie massages his neck. “You can just lay back, and I’ll take care of you. Maybe even make your head go quiet for awhile.”
“Are you trying to bribe me, Mr. Solomons?”
Against his ear, a laugh rumbles in Alfie’s chest.
“You can’t tell me it’s not working.”
Maybe it’s lucky that he’s so fucking tired, makes it easier to just give in. Let Alfie make the decisions. So, he tries.
“No… dark, confined spaces without windows. Not for long at least. And no locked doors, if we can avoid it.” He has to pause, stare down at his knuckles. “That was hard right after- when we just got back. But I didn’t think- it hasn’t happened like that before. Hasn’t been that bad.”
Alfie nods. “Then I know what to keep you away from. Shouldn’t be too hard. You know I don’t believe in the concept of locking doors.” Tommy has to admit it’s rather endearing that he seems so fucking pleased with getting a response. Though he feels at once that he’s said too much, that his soul is all raw and bare now and he can’t-
Alfie doesn’t give him the option of running off this time. He holds him tightly and goes into this whole long story about how ‘he once heard this thing, right, about someone living in a well for two years, actually living, inside the well, fucking surviving on the fungus off the walls, could you believe? But also: perhaps it was actually a song, now that he thinks of it, so could very well not be true-‘
Tommy closes his eyes.
Later that night, Alfie will make good on his promise, and fuck Tommy hard, and slow and deep, until he falls apart in his arms. Until he’s quivering and gasping for all the right reasons. Until he’s exhausted and pliant enough to fall asleep tucked against his side, the thought of tunnels far from his mind.
But already, when sitting there on the couch in Alfie’s sure embrace, listening to him go on and on about that stupid fucking story that, yeah, pretty clearly is made up- Tommy’s head goes quiet. And for just a moment, he feels that maybe he can do this, after all.